


Who fortune could not save

by Strudelmugel



Series: Peace and Love [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Broadway References, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Love Letters, M/M, but are getting their own stories, sufin and aushun are referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 22:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12827832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelmugel/pseuds/Strudelmugel
Summary: As his relationship with the eccentric Franz Edelstein grows, Lars Oxenstjärna contemplates how little he knows of the man's past, why that could possibly be, and how much of his own past is worth revealing.





	Who fortune could not save

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the first in a series of one-shots involving APH ships based on various Pogues songs that are all pretty sad and melancholy because most Pogues songs are depressing as fuck. This one's LadKug and although it could be argued most of these stories take place in the same universe (with the exception of some of the stories with overlapping ships etc), the two that are definitely linked to this one are the AusHun and SuFin stories, so please look out for those. A lot of these stories are epistolary too, because that's something I want to explore more and I like using them for historical fics. Oh, and a lot of these are set in different historical time periods too.
> 
> This particular song is based on 'Thousands are Sailing' and parts of this song also inspired the SuFin and AusHun ones, though they get their own songs too. The fics will be called 'Dancing on the Line' and 'Set the Night on Fire' respectively, and are currently in the works.
> 
> ...
> 
>  
> 
> Franz - Kugelmugel  
> Lars - Ladonia

["In manhattan's desert twilight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc1G7aCpSsI)  
[In the death of afternoon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc1G7aCpSsI)  
[We stepped hand in hand on broadway](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc1G7aCpSsI)  
[Like the first man on the moon"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc1G7aCpSsI)

* * *

 

18th October, 1952

  
  
Franz, my dearest friend,   
  
You said you do not have anyone to send letters to, there are too few people in your life and you miss to romance of receiving a handwritten letter. Well, now you have me! I mean, you already had me but now you have me and a letter to read whenever you please. Maybe I can even write to you about things my stupid mouth refuses to say aloud. Or, you know, about the important things. Or about you. Or all three? So much for romance of this. Writing letters is a lost art, and I have long lost the art of writing letters since I stopped believing in Santa. 

As for things that cannot be said aloud...  
  
For example, I wish I knew what to say about so many things. I wish you were less alone. Where are your parents? Do you not have brothers or sisters? I cannot even believe you came to this country alone. Were you scared? You travelled to England as a child. To live? Your parents let you live on your own like that? Like a grown up? You were so lucky!   
  
I did not mean to make this a letter prying into your personal life. Tell me when you want to.

You are a fascinating man, though, like you are from another time. You seem like you would be more at home in a mansion, writing and painting and being an odd, eccentric fellow with no one to disturb you.   
  
The truth is, I have no idea what to put in a letter. We see each other every week. I suppose I could complain about Peter, but I do that in person already. Is there anywhere you would like us to go? I feel there is still so much of this city we have yet to explore – and I have lived here since I was three!  
  
All the best,  
  
Your good friend Lars  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
19th October, 1952

  
  
Dear diary,  
  
Trying to recall my earliest memories reminds me of drowning. Like I am surrounded by inky water and clawing my way towards the light that might be the surface, or a siren. It is like staring at a half-finished painting: some details are there, but it is mostly white. Or an abstract work of art whose meaning I have not quite yet grasped.  
  
Trying to put dates and time spans to these memories would be like tearing the pages of this diary out and throwing them on the floor, only to spend days putting them back in order.  
  
This is how I feel trying to remember my papa.  
  
I have one memory of his face. His living face, that is. Warm. Stern, but kind. He was proud of me, I think. Maybe I had taken my first steps? Or fed myself? But he was overjoyed. Was it back in Sweden? Maybe that is my only memory of Sweden, but I have long forgotten everything in the image that was not papa.  
  
In my other memories, he is a corpse.  
  
I remember wondering why papa was sleeping on the table. Why was the blanket covering his face? I was never allowed to hide under the covers – Mr Tino said I might suffocate in the night. He always worried about things like that.  
  
He was crying. I wondered if it was because papa was sleeping under the covers. And on the table.  
  
Papa was a strange man, or so I have since been told.  
  
They put him in a box and buried him in the ground. I tried to climb in after him, wake him up and get him out of there or he’d be scared when he woke up alone and trapped. Mr Tino cried and pulled me out. I thought he might get angry, shout at me and tell me to stop playing, but he never; he just cuddled me as I screamed to get papa out of there.  
  
He didn’t like the dark. What were they doing?  
  
Peter threw flowers into the hole after him. I remember little else.  
  
I have yet to think of the reason I write all this down. Why would I want to document such an event? Then again, these are the only memories of papa I have.  
  
Mr Tino told me to call him Isi. He said he was our new papa, that our real papa had asked him to look after us as if we were his own children. It was something we accepted without much thought, and something I will always accept.  
  
Lucky I have more memories of Isi. He truly was my second father and I only wish Franz could have met him too. They would get along, most likely, travelling all the way from Europe on their own.  
  
I think I now accept I cannot remember a thing about Sweden.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
28th October, 1952

  
  
My own dearest friend,  
  
I feel there are many things I have never explained to you, things I felt I did not need to and things I did not want to speak of. Not right now. Maybe not ever, but chances are I just need time. I have told no one for thirteen years and will do at some point, but I want to know I can trust you with such information. Do not speak of Kindertransport again until I am ready to explain, or do your own research for the time being and think of what you truly wish to ask.  
  
Regardless, I agree with your wish to be less alone. I have had no one, really. Not in a good while.  
  
Prying aside, I did enjoy your letter. I have not had post in a long time – even my foster family in England have moved on – but now I not only have a beautiful letter but something of you I can hold and keep with me! A tiny piece of your soul. Thank you.  
  
Yours faithfully,  
  
Franz Edelstein  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
31st December, 1952

  
  
My diary,   
  
I should invite Franz over. 

We always go to his apartment and he cooks for me and fusses over me so much, like I am his husband or something. I love it but sometimes I feel bad that he does so much work. I mean, he has that job at the theatre and still makes time to care for me like we are married?  
  
I will cook for him! I will make him something Swedish – he likes Swedish, so he was telling me. No, wait, I don't get paid for a few more days... cupboard leftovers it is, I'm afraid. Sorry, Franz.  
  
I will make sure Peter is on his best behaviour too. Or, preferably, get that wannabe magician to do a disappearing act. Is there not someone he can go out drinking with? He certainly is going nowhere near the kitchen.  
  
I wish I had somewhere more impressive to bring you, Franz. A one-room apartment… what to do? The tour would be rather a disappointment:  
  
“So this is where I sleep, and I eat in that chair with the creaky leg, and that dark stain on the ceiling is from where my adoptive father blew his brains out. Peter found him and he has not been quite the same since.”  
  
No! We will have a good time! I just have to believe in my abilities as an entertainer.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
1st January, 1953

  
  
Dear diary,   
  
So, I burnt dinner.   
  
Franz tried his best to spare my feelings and eat a lump of spam and chips that I blamed on Peter – yes of course he cooked and left just before you showed up, it is completely his fault that they burnt – but, soon enough, I could see your gourmet stomach was aching.   
  
So we went out to a bar, not the same bar I’d convinced Peter to go it, no, one to more our… tastes. After getting something to eat, of course.   
  
I hope Franz does not think I’m here for his money, though it was lovely sitting in a top-class restaurant, with rich, expensive food and wine. I would love Franz if he wasn’t an actor. He could be homeless and I’d love him all the same. After all, he loves me though I sweep roads for a living.   
  
We stayed at the bar until last year rolled into this, holding each other close and dancing like we were the last two people on earth. Honestly, the way things are headed, we could find wake up and find ourselves the last two people on earth, or that we’ve become nothing but dust and ash, so why not grab every opportunity to live our lives and go out with no regrets? I sang louder and danced harder and held Franz closer at the thought. 

It was so refreshing to be able to hold him with no fear.   
  
A strange way to go about life: both living for the moment and be damned with the consequences; and secrecy mixed with caution because as much as I want to say to hell with everything, there is still a chance of life ahead and I don’t want that life to be spent in prison.   
  
Or, more importantly, I couldn’t bear to see Franz in prison.   
  
Why am I talking about this? I’m here to talk about the best night of my life!   
  
When Franz and I eventually stumbled into the street, it was still night. Morning couldn’t have been far off, though, and things had an otherworldly magic to them. Or maybe I was too tired and plonked to see properly, but a drunk artist is still an artist, after all. Few cars were about, even as we walked along Broadway, holding each other up and laughing and at some point we danced. Stupid, lively dancing. No music, but no matter.   
  
Lucky for us, Franz’s hair is so long, and he’s so small compared to me. That mess of blond was tied into a ponytail, swishing everywhere and whacking me in the face as he spun. His coat ballooned like a pleated skirt, and he took his hand in mine, leading me in a waltz.   
  
Neon lights overhead were our spotlights, the distant rumbling of cars our cheering audience. He even climbed a lamppost as he sang singing in the rain.   
  
He kissed me before we parted at the end of the night. Twice. A teasing peck before going in for something deeper. He caressed my face before disappearing with a wink, wishing myself and the city a good night.   
  
When I got to my room, I may have cried.   
  


* * *

 

  
24th May, 1953

  
  
Meine Liebe,   
  
I shall give you this letter personally and you in turn will promise to keep it safe and hidden. Written word removes the risk of unwanted ears hearing what I have to say, but creates cold, hard proof that I love you. There, a man condemned. I love you, Lars Birghir Oxenstjärna. What of it, world?   
  
I would ask you to destroy this letter after reading, but I suspect you would like to keep it. After all, I worked hard on making it aesthetically pleasing, a good canvas for my poor heart and soul. Cherish this, but hide it.   
  
Keep it next to your heart, next to me.   
  
You’ve changed my life, you know? You’ve filled it to the top and made it better than I could ever hope for. The colour you brought into this world saved my artist lungs and soul, and it is starting to push back the tide of grey. It is no longer everywhere I look. I can love the twinkles of light all around me, like I'm walking in a fairy wonderland. I now notice the headlamps of cars that dance across puddles in the road. There is magic in this city and in you, please remember that.    
  
I believe we will last forever, that the love of an artist can never be killed, not truly. We may not see it now, but our relationship will leave its mark on the world.   
  
Until we meet again tomorrow and I can tell you all this in person,   
  
Your dear Franz xx

 

* * *

 

  
  
25th May, 1953

  
Diary,

Tonight we had the most magical time together. I met him after work, as he practised his lines to an empty theatre, and to me, ever so subtly, he said. I was able to vaguely follow the plot to Guys and Dolls and.. I think his character was Nathan Detroit. Okay, I had no interest in the musical itself but I loved watching Franz perform. Everything he said was so smooth, the tone of his voice and every expression just right, the way he interacted with other characters so smooth, everything a perfect rhythm.

It stung, seeing him sing love songs to someone else, seeing him hold her and kiss her and marry her. I know he was thinking of me, but the fact that we will never be able to marry, never be able to declare our love to the public, it hurts.

I mean, we could, theoretically, do it, we would just end up in prison. With other men. Who thought this through?

I invited him home and we drew each other, drinking heavily and laughing. Our drawings, as the night progressed, became… well… let’s call them abstract. And awful.

When Franz becomes drunk, he sings. Like his parents, apparently, the first piece of information he has shared about them. He sang all the songs he’d worked so hard to learn, possibly the entire Guys and Dolls soundtrack but I don’t know the songs themselves. 

I know what Franz did to me when he kissed me, though.

 

* * *

  
  
  
26th May, 1953

My diary, my confidant,

Franz is mine to hold and cherish, day by day and time after time. He makes me want to be a poet. I hate poetry, but I love Franz so much I want to write every detail, preserve him for all time.   


He stayed the night, and I watch him sleep as I write in the early hours of the morning. I love watching him sleep, it’s the only other place - besides the stage and my arms - where he looks genuinely happy. I stroke his hair with one hand, diary on my knees and trying to keep as quiet as possible. I want food, but I don’t want Franz to wake up alone.

I love him so much.

 

* * *

 

I told him about my parents. 

I never told anyone, and since Isi died I’ve only had Peter to talk to about it. Sometimes we stay up late with beer and share our favourite memories of Isi, or wonder just what papa was like. Peter has more memories of him, and tells me he was truly kind. A selfless man. Though he had been sworn to secrecy on the subject, Peter tells me they loved each other very much.

I told Franz everything: their relationship, what papa did to make us leave Sweden, how they died. I trust Franz, and wanted him to know about this, this part of my life that’s so important but so, so secret, to not have any more walls where he is concerned.

I cried.

I hadn’t thought about them in a while - I try not to. I just want to move on and live my life but the ghosts are still with me and I miss them. Maybe it’s my own future staring at me: I will go the same way as dad and Franz will be my Tino. I know times are different and I’m not working all the hours on the railroad like they were, with that level of danger, but some things haven’t changed.

Whatever happens, I loved and that is what mattered.

It’s what Isi always told me: he never regretted love, taking that chance when the whole world was against them. I know what he means now.

Franz was there for me, though, he held me as I sobbed onto his shoulder. Thinking about how he cares for me so much made me cry harder, and the smell of his hair is home to me. 

He doesn’t want to tell me about his parents yet, and I accept that.

 

* * *

  
  
  
1st August, 1953

  
  
Dear diary,  
  
Franz is the best thing to ever happen to me.  
  
Yes, everything about our relationship must remain a secret, but I’m still so happy to have this gentle, loving man in my life, to caress and hold and swear to protect. We have pockets of moments, between work and trying to sell my paintings. We have nights and whispers and kisses and he tells me he doesn't mind quiet, secret. He hates being exposed, out in the open with everyone knowing everything, like they could use it against him. He is a whirlwind too, but he has his limits.  
  
Franz does look after me, maybe a little too much – I am supposed to be a grown man – but I have promised that nothing bad will happen to him either, not if I can help it. Something tells me he just needs a break in life.  
  
I love his hair so much. It's a wave of ice but the softest things. And his eyes! They look like little jewels and he has a mole on his cheek that is so cute. Anywhere I put my hands is soft, smooth, perfect. Every smile he gives is so genuine I cannot believe I can make a human look at me in such a way! He is an expressive man, must be to work on stage, but every emotion he rides, even the ones he would rather avoid.  
  
Sometimes, at night when he is awake and I'm almost asleep, he looks like he will cry.  
  
I still don’t know much of his past. I don’t know about the kindertransport or the Shoah or any of those words he hesitates in telling me, hesitates more before saying now isn't the time. I understand, I think.  
  
Something evil happened.  
  
I asked Peter, but he knows nothing. Typical. He told me to go to the library, and I suppose, if I have no other option, then I could see what a few hours reading can tell me.  
  
I’ve heard to talk about the Shoah a lot, now that I think of it, not with me, but with older people, other immigrants with haunted looks and old scars. Franz doesn't share the look, but rather one of loss, fear. It ages him before me, and I want to know what was taken from him. If I cannot get it back, I could avenge Franz, right?  
  
I need to know. I have to know what hurt him! I have to be able to protect him properly so he doesn't become like those other people. Is that a possibility?  
  
That’s it! I should ask them instead! Then I will know what to say to Franz, and how to talk to him without causing him to, well, clam up. Maybe I can help?  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
2nd August, 1953  


 

  
I understand now. Oh God, I understand now.

 


End file.
